


Blue Used To Be The Warmest Colour

by Jojo_In_The_Shadows



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Disapproving Family, F/F, Heavy Angst, I'm Sorry, Major character death - Freeform, Reconciliation, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 11:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18151058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jojo_In_The_Shadows/pseuds/Jojo_In_The_Shadows
Summary: Patsy and Delia's reunion in the Christmas special didn't end with Delia getting on the bus back to Hornsey.I'm so so so sorry.





	Blue Used To Be The Warmest Colour

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning - Major Character Death
> 
> So I read the graphic novel Blue Is The Warmest Colour last month. Then this appeared in my head. I hoped if I ignored it it would go away. It didn't. Instead it stood there smiling at me while I was trying to write two other pieces and in the end I had to give in.
> 
> I'm expecting most of you to avoid this one to be honest. And I'm prepared for those who do read it to hate me. Well...not prepared...but...accepting?
> 
> I also owe Cwtchd an apology for calling her a big meanie if she was going to do exactly what I've gone and done here!
> 
> I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...

Patsy sank down on to her bed, she felt too big for her skin, her head so light she thought it might float away given a chance. She wasn’t looking at the dressing table under the mirror. Wasn’t really looking at anything. Wasn’t thinking anything either. But she could see those eyes. Those bright, beautiful blue eyes. They could shine with joy, twinkle with mischief, or glisten with mirth. They were so warm with love that looking into them felt like coming home. Or at least they used to.

 

A dull thud brought her back to the room. She looked around, dazed. She didn’t remember making her way back to Nonnatus. She couldn’t remember anything since Blod had handed her the little brown book, squeezed her hand and turned away.

 

She tightened her grip on the book. That precious book. Only it wasn’t there. She stared at her hands, genuinely confused. Where was it? Her heart squeezed painfully and her breath came quick as shaking hands frantically checked the pockets and snow-damp folds of her coat, the bed around her, even her shirt and slacks. It wasn’t there. Oh god no no no no no no she couldn’t have dropped it! She stood quickly, spinning on the spot, hoping against hope to spy the book somewhere in her surroundings. If it was lost she didn’t know what she’d do. It was all she had left. She was losing the battle against hyperventilation, tingling fingers clutching at her hair as panicked tears brimmed in her eyes.

 

Spinning one last time, something tapped against her foot. She glanced down, trying hard to focus through the pool forming on her eyelids. Peeking out from under the bed was the corner of a book. Hesitantly, she crouched down, leaning against the bed for support. Please god please. Shaking fingers reached out and grasped the leather bound corner, slowly drawing it out into the light. A great heaving sob escaped as the tears breached their defences. Tenderly caressing the cover and running a finger over the crushed corner of the spine that she vaguely recalled picking at on her long walk home, she breathed a tremulous sigh of relief.

 

It wasn’t a book, it was _the_ book. Or more accurately diary. Delia’s diary. Thank whatever gods or spirits may or may not exist that she hadn’t lost it.

 

Lacking any grace, she collapsed sideways, supported by her bed and the nightstand, one leg splayed in front of her, the other awkwardly folded underneath her, and wept, face turned to the heavens, mouth wide to release cries she couldn’t vocalise.

 

Time lost all meaning, and she really didn’t care, the weight of the diary in her lap the only thing preventing her from spiralling into oblivion.

 

A sense of deja vu washed over her with the sunrise, becoming conscious of being sat alone on the floor of a room, the first light of day making the curtains glow. All that was missing was a ghastly jug full of chrysanthemums.

 

She felt numb, but disconcertingly calm. When she tried to rise she discovered the leg folded beneath her had been rendered useless. She just frowned at it. It seemed she would be stuck here for a while longer. With no little effort she managed to unfold the leg, leaving it in a position to regain blood flow.

 

Then she picked up the diary. It felt like an invasion of privacy to so much as open the cover, so she just sat and gazed at it a while, allowing herself to see Delia curled up with it, filling it with her thoughts and feelings and returning memories. It was without conscious intention that she lifted the front cover and promptly burst into tears again.

 

The first three pages were covered with the same sentence written over and over.

 

_My name is Delia Ceinwen Busby, I am a nurse._

 

Each repetition was preceded by a date, the earliest were wobbly and childlike, but with each day characteristics of Delia’s handwriting began to return; the curve of the E into the L, the swell of the B, snap of the W, the flick of the M and the N, which Delia had always refused to join up to the next letter. Patsy didn’t doubt that Delia had gotten through plenty of paper, practicing daily before entering a final proof in this record of progress.

 

On the next page began a diary entry, dated November 17th. The handwriting wasn’t quite Delia’s yet, but there was enough of her there to make Patsy’s heart ache.

 

_It’s Patsy. The woman who visits me in my dreams, the woman I think I see every time I pass a tall blonde or redhead. Her name is Patsy. But that’s all I know about her. Except that her very existence gives me butterflies, makes me exceptionally wary, and inexplicably sad all at once. Are we friends? Colleagues? Acquaintances? Or something else entirely? All I do know is that I can’t talk to anyone about her. And that whoever she is, I miss her. Does she miss me?_

 

 

 

 

“I’ll be on the bus back to Hornsey soon…”

 

Delia was watching her warily, a flicker of hope in her slightly dulled, tired blue eyes. Patsy knew what Delia wanted from her. Reassurance. She wanted Patsy to tell her this wasn’t the end for them, that they could come back from this. But Patsy was still reeling, fighting against the swell of hurt, and bitterness of abandonment. She’d spent nearly two months now trying to shut down her feelings, something she was generally very good at doing, and though she’d been less successful this time it wasn’t like flicking a light switch. She couldn’t just let it all go and love again.

 

She rolled her eyes behind her eyelids. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that.”

 

Patsy didn’t miss the flash of hurt that passed across Delia’s face. It was swiftly replaced by exasperation, an expression she was too familiar with, but this time it was laced with desperation.

 

“You’re supposed to say, don’t disappear again. You’re supposed to say meet me again. Write to me. Don’t break the thread. Let’s pick up all the broken pieces. Let’s pick up where we were.”

 

The intensity with which Delia was scrutinising her was making Patsy itch. She squirmed in her seat. Of course she wanted to say those things, she wanted that reassurance just as much as Delia undoubtedly did. But she was scared. She was so scared. She was finding it hard to believe Delia was even sat here with her. Besides, she’d never been one for grandiose, romantic statements. They didn’t sit well with her. That had always been Delia’s penchant, and Patsy was content that it stay that way.

 

So she shrugged. “Can’t I just say come back?” Belatedly she offered Delia a small fishhook smile.

 

The shyly delighted smile that spread across Delia’s face and the warmth that flared back to life in her eyes was almost enough to melt Patsy’s heart.

 

Delia glanced down and nodded. “Yes.”

 

Patsy only allowed herself to experience the joy of the reconciliation for a brief moment before looking away from Delia’s beaming face, reluctant to let herself get carried away by hope.

 

A delicate hand covered her own in her lap.

 

“What are you thinking cariad?”

 

Patsy sighed. “Honestly, I’m not sure really. I just never thought I’d see you again. This feels like a dream.”

 

Delia just watched her for a minute, before glancing at the clock above the jukebox. A chill flooded through Patsy and settled in her stomach. Was their time up already?

 

“I’ve got 20 minutes ’til my bus comes.”

 

Patsy clutched at the hand holding hers, averting her eyes, not wanting Delia to see her panic. She wanted to beg. Patience Mount did not beg, but she wanted to beg Delia to stay, here, with her.

 

Delia’s other hand gently pried her fingers loose, but instead of releasing them she held them lightly, her thumb stroking slowly across her knuckles. “Shall we take a little walk?” she asked softly.

 

The redhead was suddenly aware of all the other cafe patrons around them. And she wanted Delia to herself, even if just for a short while. She nodded fitfully, Delia smiling again before releasing her hands.

 

 

 

 

It was bitter outside. The wind had picked up since they’d entered the cafe. Now Patsy was prickled with guilt that she’d made Delia wait out in the elements while she changed out of her uniform. She didn’t even know how long she’d already been waiting under that railway bridge, hoping Patsy would return before she had to sneak back to Hornsey.

 

She allowed Delia to walk a step ahead of her. She knew where they were headed, but she wanted to keep the woman in sight, almost waiting for her to disappear into thin air.

 

Delia nudged her towards a side street, three doors down from the cafe, where they knew there was a sheltered alleyway down the back of the row of shops. It was where a few of their coffee dates had ended.

 

As they stepped into the gloom, away from the biting wind and the judgemental glare of the streetlamps, Delia took Patsy’s hand, halting her and encouraging her around to face her. “I’ve missed you so much,” she whispered, bringing Patsy’s hand to her mouth, pressing her lips to the heel, kissing down to her wrist, lingering over her pulse point.

 

Patsy wrapped a strand of dark wind-liberated hair around her finger, gazing at Delia in absolute wonder. She was here. Her love was really here. She tucked the strand behind the welshwoman’s ear, allowing her palm to settle on her cheek, relishing the cool and heat of Delia’s wind-reddened skin.

 

Delia pressed into her hand, glancing up and examining Patsy’s expression. She moved the hand she held to sit on her own waist, and Patsy’s breath was snatched away when she saw the loving warmth in her blue eyes intensify. She didn’t know who moved first, but the distance between them was gone. The kiss started as gentle, hesitant almost, Delia pulling away to look Patsy in the eye. The redhead was reminded of their first kiss, shy and self-conscious. But that wasn’t them anymore, or it hadn’t been before the accident, and she didn’t want that to be them again.

 

So Patsy surged forward, covering Delia’s lips with her own, the hand at Delia’s waist moving to the small of her back to pull her close. Delia’s arms were around Patsy’s neck, the smaller woman taking a step forward to guide them towards the wall of the alley. She pressed Patsy against the brickwork, leaning up on her toes, her mouth moving against Patsy’s in a way she thought she’d never experience again. The contact made her feel more alive than she’d felt in nearly two months, and she wanted more. She clutched at Delia’s back trying to haul her impossibly closer. She needed this woman more than she’d ever dare to admit.

 

She pushed her tongue into Delia’s mouth, eliciting a guttural groan from the brunette, her fingers digging into the back of Patsy’s neck. Coats. Their coats were in the way. Patsy wanted no barriers, nothing between them. She needed to feel her skin against Delia’s. Hell, she wanted to crawl inside Delia’s skin, merge with the woman, she wanted them to become one.

 

A gentle squeeze of her hand and a stroke of a thumb under her eye brought her back to the cold alleyway. Delia rested her forehead against Patsy’s, breathing hard. It took a moment for Patsy to regain her senses. Her hands had seemingly acted of their own accord, Delia’s coat now splayed open , one arm wrapped tightly around Delia’s waist under the wool, the other laid against her chest just under the collar of her dress, now covered by Delia’s hand.

 

“I’m sorry,” Patsy mumbled, flinching away, appalled at her own behaviour, but Delia held her where she was.

 

“It’s all right cariad.” She gave Patsy a sweet, chaste kiss, stroking her thumb below her eye again.

 

It was only then Patsy realised she was crying. A sob rushed up her throat, strangling her words as she looked away, ashamed. “I’m sorry. That was highly inappropriate of me.” She felt Delia shake her head. Her hand was moved from under Delia’s collar to over her heart.

 

“I understand. I spent nearly a month wondering if you were real or a figment of my imagination. My mam claimed not to know who I was talking about when I asked after the girl with red hair. Then I found your photo in one of my textbooks.” She offered Patsy a small smile. “So you see, you’re not the only one needing reassurance that this is real.”

 

Delia grasped Patsy’s face with both hands, drawing her down, kissing her deeply but gently. Patsy tried to restrain herself, tried not to let the hurt and the anger show through, but still found herself digging her fingers a little too hard into Delia’s hips.

 

“Please,” Patsy begged, her lips moving down to explore the column of Delia’s throat. “Don’t leave me.”

 

Delia sighed in her ear, clutching at Patsy’s shoulders. “I’ll come back to you cariad, I promise.”

 

The desperation seeped out of Patsy’s bones, replaced by a peace she hadn’t felt since that fateful morning in October when her life had felt almost perfect for the first time. Before it had been snatched from her. Calmly now, she kissed Delia, wrapping her arms around her tenderly, turning them around to press Delia against the wall. She was content to just enjoy the moment, to indulge in the few minutes they had left together alone. She couldn’t help wanting a little more though, and eased her knee between Delia’s thighs, applying just the slightest pressure. Delia gasped, pressing her fingers into Patsy’s shoulder blades, Patsy pulling away to watch wide-eyed and breathless as Delia’s pleasure was displayed across her face, the welshwoman’s pelvis instinctively tilting against Patsy’s leg. Good god she’d missed this woman.

 

“Oh. Pats,” Delia sighed, eyes fluttering shut as Patsy pressed against her. “Don’t start something you can’t finish my love, please.”

 

“Who says I won’t let you finish?” Patsy husked in her ear before pulling the lobe between her lips.

 

Delia’s groan vibrated through her. “Ooh, cariad, no.” The pressure on Patsy’s leg reduced as Delia forced her hips back against the wall. “I want you Patsy, so very much, but I don’t want our reconciliation to be up against a wall in a dirty alleyway.”

 

Patsy took a few deep breaths to ground herself. “Whatever you want darling. I’m sorry.”

 

The brunette’s hand returned to her cheek, the other reaching around the back of her neck to stroke through the fine hairs at the base of her skull. “Don’t be sorry, just kiss me Pats.”

 

The redhead gladly obliged, kissing her love serenely, lazily.

 

Delia sighed against her lips. “When this is all over, I think we need a holiday.”

 

Patsy hummed her agreement. “I want to take you to Paris Delia Busby.”

 

“I like the way you think Patience Mount,” Delia giggled lightly. She pulled back to look Patsy in the eye. “I love you Patsy.”

 

Patsy grinned. “And I love you Deels, so very, very much.”

 

Delia’s beaming smile could have lit up the entire alley. She tucked her head happily under Patsy’s chin, nuzzling her, wrapping her arms tight around her waist. Patsy felt so gloriously happy in that moment she thought she might burst. She’d be content to stay this way forever, with her love safely held against her.

 

She gladly took more of Delia’s weight as the woman relaxed against her. She’d looked tired in the cafe, she was probably exhausted now. And her bus must be due very soon. As much as she’d much rather sneak Delia back to Nonnatus she knew she needed to see her on her way back to Hornsey. There would be plenty of time to just hold each other in the future.

 

“We’d better make a move Deels,” she murmured, reluctant to break the spell.

 

Delia made a small noise of protest. “I suppose.” But made no attempt to move. In fact, Patsy thought her words had sounded a little odd, slurred almost.

 

“Come on then old thing,” she said, taking a step back. It was then she realised Delia wasn’t relaxed, so much as sagged against her. “Delia? Are you all right?”

 

“I’ll be fine,” the welshwoman muttered against her chest. “Just a bit of a headache coming on.”

 

This time the words were definitely slurred and Patsy’s stomach clenched. She adjusted her hold on the woman, gripping her tight with one arm, bringing the other hand to Delia’s chin. “Delia look at me darling.”

 

Delia made a feeble effort to lift her head so Patsy helped her by lifting her chin. Her heart plummeted. The right side of Delia’s face had fallen, the corner of her mouth hanging slack.

 

“We need to get you to the hospital.” Patsy desperately tried to keep her tone calm despite the adrenalin flooding her system as she tried to manoeuvre a limp arm around her neck, hoping to guide her love out of the alleyway.

 

“But my appointment’s not until tomorrow,” Delia whined, her brow furrowed in confusion. She frowned down at her leg when it failed to take a step forward. “What’s going on?”

 

“Listen to me Delia, I think you’re having a stroke.” Patsy wrapped both arms around Delia, her heart pounding in her ears. They weren’t going to be walking back to the main road, it would take too long. She’d have to carry Delia.

 

“A stroke? Don’t be ridiculous, it’s just a…” The scream that severed Delia’s train of thought would have chilled Patsy’s blood in her veins if she wasn’t already miles past that point.

 

Delia collapsed in her arms, though one hand clawed at Patsy’s chest, taking an iron grip on her coat. The left side of her face contorted in agony, her mouth remaining open in a silent scream once her lungs could no longer support the vocalisation. The woman’s eye fluttered open and Patsy was transfixed by the cold blue terror.

 

A violent tug on her coat roused her and with shaking arms she cradled Delia, holding her close as she struggled to stand under her dead weight. She stumbled back to the side street, blind to the obstacles in her way. She had only one objective.

 

“Help!” She screamed, her voice already hoarse. “Somebody please help me!”

 

 

 

 

Patsy sat ramrod straight in the uncomfortable chair down the corridor from Delia’s room, her knuckles white around the welshwoman’s scarf in her lap. She could feel Mrs Busby glaring at her, bemoaning her presence, no, her existence to the older woman beside her who was valiantly trying to stay between them. But Patsy didn’t hear her.

 

She should have done more. The nurse in her knew that was impossible, but it didn’t stop her mind going over and over the event.

 

Her cries for help had thankfully attracted the attention of a young couple who had just let the cafe. She didn’t know whether to summon an ambulance or not, it could take ages, and the crew wouldn’t be able to do anything to help her precious Delia beside providing transport. Fortunately while she was deliberating, the young man, she hadn’t caught his name, had disappeared and returned with his car. He’d helped Patsy lift Delia into the backseat, his girlfriend, or wife, she didn’t know, covering her legs with a blanket while Patsy cradled her love close.

 

“To the London, please, and do hurry,” she vaguely remembered instructing her ad hoc driver.

 

The journey had felt agonisingly slow, Patsy watching her beloved’s face intently, only slightly comforted by the vice-like grip Delia maintained on her hand. She’d quietly pleaded with the woman not to leave her, to keep her promise, reassuring her that she’d be in good hands soon, ignoring the fact they both knew there was little even the doctors at the London could do in this situation.

 

They’d of course been separated when they arrived at the hospital. Patsy didn’t think she’d even thanked the young couple that had come to their aid, her focus entirely on Delia. She’d been unable to construct a lie when asked if she was family, told in no uncertain terms that she could go no further with the welshwoman. So she’d made her way up to neurology, hoping Delia would make it that far.

 

When Mrs Busby had stormed in, trailed by the older woman, nearly an hour later, at least Patsy knew Delia hadn’t died downstairs in the casualty department. The tentative relief was short-lived, the sting of Mrs Busby’s palm against her cheek cowing her entirely.

 

“I should have known you’d be here,” Mrs Busby spat, murder in her flinty eyes. “Why won’t you just leave my daughter alone?”

 

Patsy wanted to scream that Delia had come to her, not the other way around, that if she hadn’t interfered Delia may not have felt compelled to travel across London in all weathers in order to get answers. But all she could manage was a meek “I’m sorry.”

 

The nurse at the desk had reprimanded them for making a scene, and the woman accompanying Delia’s mother lead her to a seat by the door that was apparently Delia’s down the corridor.

 

Patsy had crept back to her seat, trying to keep her composure, trying to make herself small and unobtrusive. And she’d stayed that way for 40 minutes, trying to prevent her mind sinking into the darkness, avoiding the guilt trying to consume her. If the cubs bus hadn’t stopped at those traffic lights, if she’d been on the top deck instead of downstairs, if she hadn’t looked out the window, she wouldn’t know that Delia still loved her, still wanted her. But then maybe Delia would still be all right, still recovering at her aunt’s house instead of back here in a hospital bed. Heavens, if she’d never offered her use of her bike…

 

She couldn’t think like that, she mustn’t. Delia didn’t need ifs and maybes, she needed Patsy. If she was ever allowed into her room.

 

Her destructive thoughts were interrupted by Delia’s door opening and a man stepping out, approaching Mrs Busby. Patsy stood when the two older women stood, taking small, tentative steps towards the group, hoping not to be noticed.

 

“Mrs Busby, we suspect your daughter has suffered a haemorrhagic stroke,” the man, she presumed consultant, stated disinterestedly, no trace of compassion, not that she expected any from a consultant.

 

Mrs Busby had gone impossibly pale, leaning on the other woman as she swayed on her feet. “A stroke? How can she have a stroke? She’s too young, she’s only 24!”

 

“It’s likely that an artery in her brain was damaged in her accident back in October. It could have ruptured at any time.”

 

Patsy felt no satisfaction at being proven correct. Instead, her own brain started running a mile a minute. Had Delia’s head struck the wall in the alleyway? Had the stress of their reunion, or their fooling around been too much Delia’s fragile brain? Was this her fault?

 

“I’m afraid she’s highly unlikely to recover from the bleed. In fact she probably won’t last the night, or regain consciousness. If I were you, I’d say your goodbyes.”

 

Her vision narrowed down to a pinprick of light as Patsy’s world collapsed in on itself. Her Delia was going to die. She was vaguely aware of sliding down the wall as her legs gave way. No-one came to her aid, and why would they? She hadn’t earned anyones compassion. She was just a strange woman with no reasonable reason to be on the ward, getting hysterical over someone else’s tragic news. And even if someone did know what Delia was to her, she was still a deviant. Neither society as a whole, or hospital rules acknowledged or accepted their inclinations, let alone their relationship.

 

So she squeaked in surprise when she felt cool hands on her face.

 

“You need to breath Patsy cariad,” a wavering, unfamiliar Welsh voice broached the ringing in her ears. “Slow and steady now, that-a girl.”

 

It took all her energy and focus to gradually regain control of her diaphragm, but soon the darkness around her vision began to recede. A face took it’s place. She recognised Delia’s nose. And surprisingly Delia’s ears. But it wasn’t Delia.

 

“Are you Auntie Blod?” She creaked.

 

The woman gave a watery smile. “I am. And I know who you are. And what you mean to our Delia.”

 

Patsy’s eyebrows shot up. “She told you?”

 

Blod nodded. “Her mother knows too. Not that she’ll ever allow it.”

 

A wave of grief washed over the redhead. “I’m not going to be allowed to see her am I?”

 

A tear tracked down Blod’s cheek. “I don’t know. My sister is a stubborn woman of propriety, despite the fact Delia would want you at her side.” The older woman’s chin trembled. “I need to go be with my niece. Will you wait here?”

 

Patsy nodded, and watched Blod struggle to her feet and disappear into Delia’s room.

 

Delia. Oh god Delia. Her Deels, her love. She didn’t think she could survive in a world where Delia didn’t exist somewhere. But what choice did she have?

 

Eventually she managed to lever herself into a chair. And there she sat for three hours, twisting Delia’s scarf in her hands, flinching every time a door opened, hoping it marked her admittance to her love’s bedside, dreading she would be informed Delia had passed away.

 

As the fourth hour approached Patsy was losing a battle against drowsiness, her head lolling on her neck. Her eyelids were just so heavy. A hand on her shoulder startled her back to awareness. How long had she been asleep for? She finally focused on Blod, the woman’s mouth tight, eyes swollen from crying. Patsy’s heart stopped.

 

“Is she…?”

 

The grey-haired welshwoman squeezed her shoulder. “She’s still with us.”

 

Patsy heaved in a breath. She could feel her entire body shaking.

 

“Enid has _chosen_ to be _benevolent_ ,” Blod sneered, “ and allow you to sit with Delia for a while.”

 

Patsy got to her feet so fast she almost fell straight back down again, her head swimming.

 

“Easy does it girl.” Blod grasped her arm, and Patsy was grateful for the support, both physically and emotionally.

 

“I’m so sorry Blod, for all of this.” Voice high and strained, Patsy hung her head as they stepped towards Delia’s door.

 

“No need for that Patsy, truly.” Blod squeezed the arm she still held. “Our Delia bach is a wilful girl, always has been. She’d have found her way back to you somehow. You are not to blame.”

 

Patsy’s throat swelled, tears trickling down her face. Though she could never forgive herself for her part in tonight’s events, she’d needed to hear from someone else that it wasn’t her fault.

 

The older woman offered her a handkerchief as they stood outside the door. “Even if she hadn’t come to find you tonight, this still might have happened. It’s all just horrible bad luck. Now, wipe those tears. My niece needs you.” She grasped the door handle. “And try to ignore anything Enid says to you.”

 

Patsy followed her into the room, trying to steel herself, but the sight that met her caused her to falter in the doorway.

 

Her Delia, her vibrant, visceral, beautiful Delia lay still and silent in the bed. Her skin was so pale Patsy had to look for the shallow rise and fall of her chest to reassure herself she was in fact alive.

 

Mrs Busby rose from her chair at Delia’s bedside, ever the stickler for correct social behaviour. “Miss Mount.” The woman’s voice was cold as ice, and grey eyes as hard as steel.

 

“Mrs Busby.” Patsy’s voice was barely above a squeak. “Thank you for allowing me to see Delia.”

 

“Yes, well,” Mrs Busby sniffed. “Just as we’re clear, I’m doing this for my daughter, not you. Five minutes, then I want you gone.”

 

Patsy didn’t think there was enough of her heart left intact to break, but it shattered now. She wasn’t even going to be allowed to be with Delia when the end came.

 

“Enid,” Blod uttered a low warning from behind Patsy.

 

“I’m serious,” Mrs Busby snapped. “You’ve been nothing but a blight on our family, I should have seen it when we were here the first time. My Delia was a happy, normal girl before you came along!”

 

“Enid you know that’s not true,” Blod squeezed Patsy’s wrist. The redhead tried to take comfort in the gesture but she didn’t think anything could comfort her now. “Why don’t you take a walk Enid, stretch your legs a bit,” Blod attempted to cajole her sister. Patsy was beginning to see where Delia got her peace-keeper tendencies from.

 

“I’m not going anywhere.” Delia’s mother looked ready to strike someone again.

 

“Then take a seat and allow the girl some peace,” Blod bit back. “Do you really want Delia hearing all this in her final hours?”

 

Finally, Mrs Busby seemed to deflate. Glaring at Patsy the whole time, her mouth pinched tight, she made her way to the chair by the door.

 

Blod pressed a hand to Patsy’s back. “Go ahead Patsy.”

 

The redhead barely kept herself from stumbling as she crept towards the chair at Delia’s bedside, never taking her eyes from the face of the woman she loved, sinking down into the hard seat, draping Delia’s scarf over the back of it. She didn’t dare look away in case she missed something; some flicker of muscle, a flutter of an eyelid, some sign that her Delia was still in there, still fighting.

 

“Has she woken up at all?” She barely heard her own question, so was surprised to get a response.

 

“No.” The tremble in Mrs Busby’s voice shouldn’t have shocked her, but it did. “The doctor said not to expect her to.”

 

With shaking hands Patsy lifted Delia’s hand from the bed sheets, her fingers discreetly settling on her pulse point, needing to feel for herself the evidence of that failing life force. Her pulse was weak and slow, but it was still there. She leant her mouth against Delia’s knuckles, determined to keep her vigil for as long as she was allowed, silent tears tracking down her face one by one.

 

It was much longer than five minutes when she finally heard Mrs Busby stand from her chair.

 

“I’d like you to leave now,” she murmured into the thick, grief-sodden quiet.

 

Patsy drew a deep breath, pressing her forehead to the hand in hers as she steeled herself for the hardest goodbye she’d ever have to make. She kissed each knuckle in turn before offering Delia a sad smile.

 

“I know you always say my accent is terrible,” she brushed a few stray strands of hair away from Delia’s eyes. “So I hope this will at least make you laugh.” She kissed the back of Delia’s hand, her fingers still lingering over the brunette’s pulse. “Rwy’n dy garu di f'anwylyd.”

 

A choked snort of laughter behind her made her chuckle.

 

“I’m so sorry Patsy,” Blod husked, tears tightening her voice as her sister tutted impatiently. “She’s right, it is terrible. But good on you for trying.”

 

The chuckle petered out. She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to leave. She placed their joined hands over Delia’s heart and leaned up, pressing her lips to Delia’s forehead. “Goodbye my love.” She nuzzled her nose against the brunette’s temple, trying to commit the smell of her hair to memory.

 

A twitch against her fingers momentarily distracted her from the searing pain in her heart. She glanced down at their hands, and tried to hold back a gasp when she saw Delia’s index finger lift. It was just an involuntary muscle spasm she reminded herself, the last of the energy in the welshwoman’s system dissipating. It probably wouldn’t be long now.

 

The tiny puff of air against her cheek though, that didn’t feel like an involuntary muscle spasm. She was too scared to look up. She didn’t want hope. Delia couldn’t survive this, it just wasn’t possible. But her eyes were drawn back to Delia’s face regardless. Her eyelids were fluttering lightly, the way they used to when she was fighting sleep. And her lips were moving, ever so slightly, like she was trying to form a word, another puff of air escaping.

 

“Delia?” Another twitch of her fingers, and then they grasped Patsy’s gently. “Deels?” She stood from her seat, hovering over the brunette, her fingers seeking the pulse in her throat. It was stronger. Barely, but definitely stronger. Delia tried to move her head.

 

“What’s going on?” Mrs Busby was suddenly standing far too close.

 

“I…I think she’s waking up.” Patsy barely kept her balance as she was shoved bodily aside, vaguely aware of the door being opened behind her and Blod rushing out.

 

Mrs Busby grasped Delia’s face between her hands, the young woman twitching in what almost looked like a flinch, her eyes still fluttering and fingers flexing at nothing now Patsy’s own had been knocked away. Patsy could only hold her breath and watch, mesmerised.

 

“Delia. Calon bach, open your eyes,” her mother pleaded. “I’m here, your mam’s here cyw, I’ve got you.”

 

Delia’s brow tightened. And then her eyes opened just a little. A choked but joyful laugh escaped Mrs Busby when her daughter looked right at her, blinking slowly, dulled blue meeting weathered grey.

 

Patsy choked back a sob. She mustn’t hope. This couldn’t last. The woman had suffered a catastrophic subdural haemorrhage, she was brain-damaged. Then Delia’s eyes met hers, and the dullness was suffused by that familiar loving warmth. Her fingers twitched, as though reaching for her. She grasped the hand, kissing the palm before placing it against her cheek. “Hello love,” she husked.

 

The left side of Delia’s lips lifted ever so slightly. Patsy didn’t want to believe it was a smile, but her heart leapt nonetheless.

 

Patsy still didn’t break the eye contact when the quiet of the room was disturbed by footsteps. Delia sighed. And then her eyes slipped closed. The fingers against her cheek twitched once, and then stilled. Everything stilled. The redhead continued to watch, holding her breath waiting for Delia’s chest to rise with an inhalation, her fingers drifting down Delia’s wrist, seeking that tiny flicker. Her lungs were starting to burn.

 

The doctor leaned over the other side of the bed, torch in hand, checking Delia’s pupils. Patsy noted the right one was blown. Neither reacted to the light. He pressed his fingers to her neck, looking at his watch.

 

Specks of light were starting to float in front of Patsy’s eyes. She took a shallow breath. Then another. Waiting.

 

“Time of death, 03:47.”

 

It was like the world had ground to a halt. Stillness. Silence. Heaviness.

 

Patsy felt like there was pressure building in her head, her skull tingling behind her ears.

 

It was over. Delia was gone.

 

She was startled when Mrs Busby grabbed her arm. “Do something. You’re a nurse. Do something.”

 

She felt like a 45 record being played with the rotation set for LP, the demand taking far too long to penetrate her mind. “I’m sorry,” tears began to flow down her face. “There’s nothing I can do.”

 

Mrs Busby’s head dropped slowly, the woman taking a deep breath and her hand tightening painfully on Patsy’s wrist. “Then get out.”

 

“Mrs Busby…”

 

Delia’s mother stood suddenly, dragging Patsy up with her. “I said get out! Get out I don’t want you here!” She thrust Patsy’s hand away from her as though she were burning her skin, before sinking to her knees beside the bed.

 

Hands grasped Patsy’s shoulders, steering her towards the door. As the door shut a heartrending wailing began within.

 

The redhead felt something being pressed into her hands. She looked down to find herself holding a small brown book.

 

“Delia’s other diary,” Blod hiccupped beside her, her cheeks wet. “ She’d want you to have it. I’m sorry Patsy.” The older woman squeezed Patsy’s hand, before disappearing back into the room.

 

Patsy remained, swaying on the spot for a short time, her mind unwilling to process what had just happened.

 

Eventually her brain switched into auto-pilot and she walked away.

 

Away from her love.

 

Away from a broken promise.

 

Away from the warmth of those blue eyes.

 

**Welsh translations**

Rwy’n dy garu di f'anwylyd - I love you my dearest

Calon bach - little heart

cyw - young bird/animal/child

**Author's Note:**

> ...I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
> 
> I could be very wrong, but I think this might be the 1000th Call The Midwife story posted on AO3!


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